The Spirit of the Wind
by SunRise19
Summary: After the death of Pocahontas's mother, Powhatan struggles with telling his daughter of her passing on. Written for a good friend, PLZ RR!...COMPLETE


A/N: Hi all!

This is a Pocahontas one-shot, and I wrote it for a very special friend of mine. She's going through a lot right now (school, interviews for college...etc) but above all, she lost her great grandmother. I wanted to write her this story, because I sincerely wish I could do more for her. I know she knows who she is, so I don't want to say who.

Anyways, I hope (to my friend) that you enjoy this, and that it helps you with all that is going on in your life. I hope it'll lift your spirit.

For everyone else that is reading this (or will read this...) I hope you all like it as well and please tell me what you think.

I've never written like this before, Please RR!

A Note about the Story:

Wautuckquas: means rabbit (Algonquian word)

-

"My daughter, Pocahontas?"

Chief Powhatan stood outside his only child's hut, his chest involuntarily tightening with the news that he had to tell his offspring. He didn't want to go into his daughter's hut, for he didn't want to disturb her sleep.

He wished he would never have to go in that longhouse, never have to see his child's innocent happy face become streaked with tears.

"Yes, father?"

Her tiny voice was heard through the door flap, as a smiling bright five year old Pocahontas stepped out of her hut.

"My daughter, did you sleep well?"

The chief knew it was a stupid question, but he didn't know what else to say, didn't know how to begin.

"Aren't you proud of me father? I slept in that hut, all by myself, and I was not scared of anything!"

Her cheerful face beamed up at him as he stood there, smiling down at his child.

"I am very proud of you my daughter, very proud of you."

He knelt down besides her meeting her at eye level, "do you want to go for a walk?"

"Yes, father I just want to brush my hair," she replied.

"Let the wind brush it my daughter."

His voice didn't sound like his own, choking out the words that he had just spoken to his young girl.

The little child didn't seem to notice as she nodded, and Powhatan stood up and gently took her hand. The two of them walked slowly out of the village, most of the villagers knowing what was going on stayed out of the father and daughter's way.

The pair went through the cornfield, past all the trees, and finally came to a wide smooth river.

"Oh father, look how pretty!"

Pocahontas shouted, pulling her father towards the cool blue water that was spread in front of them.

"Can we go in it?"

Powhatan knew he had stalled long enough; and sat down on the riverbank, opening his arms for Pocahontas.

"What is it?"

The child inquired, sitting next to Powhatan as he folded his arms in his lap. He couldn't meet her inescapable gaze, couldn't meet her dark eyes. Could not meet her mother's dark eyes.

"My daughter, your mother she, she was very sick, remember?"

At Pocahontas's nod he continued, keeping the fact in mind that he had kept his daughter away from her mother so she wouldn't get the sickness.

"Father, is she better now?"

"Pocahontas, your mother isn't going to get better."

"What do you mean?"

How could he explain it? How could he tell her that his Chenoa, her mother was dead?

"Can I see her when we get back? Will she come down to the river and play with us?"

"Pocahontas, your mother has joined the great spirits in the sky."

"Can I still see her?"

"No my daughter," Powhatan placed a hand on his forehead, trying to find the right words to tell his child.

"My daughter, do you remember that rabbit you used to have?"

At her nod he continued, "do you remember the day when you went to your rabbit's pen and you found it lying very still?"

"Yes, I asked mother what was wrong with it."

"What did she tell you?"

"She said that it was dead, but that it was in a better place."

"Well," Powhatan took in a shaky breath, "that is where your mother is, she's lying very still like your rabbit is, but just like your rabbit she is in a better place."

"Mother's, dead, like Wautuckquas?"

"Yes Pocahontas, she is dead," Powhatan sighed as his daughter lifted his face in her small hand.

"She won't be at the village then?"

"No."

"Why not? Why did she have to die?"

As Powhatan knew it would, her tiny face became streaked with tears that slowly trickled one by one, and then became a river of sorrow.

"Pocahontas, she is way up in the sky, she is in the wind, and she'll always be in the wind."

"Mama is the wind now?"

Pocahontas asked, her voice shaking;

"Her spirit is the wind; do you know what Chenoa means?"

"Mama never told me what her name meant."

"Her name means White Dove."

"Mother is a dove?"

Pocahontas shook her head, confused at her father's words; first she was the wind, now she was a dove? It was all very confusing for the native princess.

"Pocahontas," Powhatan sighed, "doves fly, but they need the wind to help them to do so. Whenever you feel the wind blow across your face, throughout your hair, or whenever it wraps you in its embrace just before you go to sleep at night; that is your mother's spirit. The wind lets her fly; she will always be with you."

"I want to play with her, who's going to tell me stories now? I don't want mother to be the dove or the wind, I want my mama to be here!"

The little girl began sobbing then, her small shoulders shaking as Powhatan took her in his strong arms. Rocking her back and forth, the father tried his best to calm his daughter's cries.

"I want my mama, no one will play with me, or sing to me, or….."

"My daughter," Powhatan's voice was barely above a whisper, "I am here for you, and so is your mother, just as she will be here for all of us. Our people look to her for guidance; someday they will look to you as well."

Pocahontas lifted her tear stained face, as a soft breeze blew around the father and daughter.

"That's mother?"

Powhatan lifted his head, deeply inhaling the air before he softly placed his chin atop Pocahontas's head.

"Yes my daughter that is your mother."

'My Chenoa.'

Powhatan thought as he shut his eyes, and the soft warm breeze picked up speed, tossing Pocahontas's raven like hair as father and daughter grieved by the riverbank. It was the first time the five year old had ever seen her father shed tears, and Powhatan realized that although he was crying in front of his daughter, and even though if others knew they may look down on him for doing so, the proud chief didn't care. He had lost his wife, his best friend, his love, and above all the woman that gave him his wonderful, beautiful daughter. Raising there heads at the same time, father and daughter smiled as the spirit of the wind dried there tears.

-End Of, "The Spirit of the Wind."-


End file.
